Act Two |
The slumber room of the funeral chapel is as before, except that the undertaker – Withers – is now present. He arranges some flowers in the vicinity of the late Mrs Arbuthnot, then surveys the result critically. Marker strides in, aggressively, followed by Gannon, who is at once mesmerised by the trappings of the room. Withers reacts sternly to the intrusion. “You mustn’t march in here in that bullish manner, you know. This isn’t a china shop.”
Marker isn’t deterred. “All right,” he demands, “where is he?”
“What a rude man you are,” gasps Withers. “The funeral is not until three o’clock, doors open two forty-five, so will you leave?”
Marker holds up the photograph of Michael. “Him. I want him.”
Withers looks. “But that’s my Mr Pemberton.”
Marker corrects him. “His name’s Gannon.”
“Pemberton,” insists Withers. “I should know – he works here. Or, at least, he did.”
Marker doesn’t like the sound of that. “Did?”
“I don’t see why I –” Suddenly, Withers looks disheartened. “Oh, don’t say you’re the police.”
“All right, I won’t. Now, what do you mean, ‘did’?”
Withers shakes his head. “I knew he must be in the most sinister trouble – he left so abruptly.” Marker asks when that was. “This very morning,” replies Withers. “He came in, announced he was leaving and had the impertinence to ask for money. Of course, he got none – after all, I am entitled to a fortnight’s notice. These Americans are all alike – splendid workers, tireless fellows, but not to be trusted. Sometimes I think they’d steal the pennies off a corpse’s eyes.” Withers immediately regrets this last, unsavoury remark. “Forgive me.”
“Do you have his address?” asks Marker.
“Oh, yes,” replies Withers.
“Could we have it?” asks Marker, patiently.
“It?” asks Withers. Then he catches up. “Yes – most certainly.” He prepares to go. “I do hope he has done nothing which reflects on us. It was quite bad enough leaving me to cope with Mrs Arbuthnot.”
“The address?” Marker reminds him.
“Yes,” nods Withers. “Shan’t be a moment.” He goes to get it.
“Now we’ll have him,” smiles Gannon.
Marker doesn’t share his optimism. “Don’t bank on it, Mr Gannon. If the name’s phoney, chances are he’ll have given a dud address.”
Gannon’s face falls. “Then how will we find him?”
“The hard way,” replies Marker. He touches one of his bruises, reflectively. “Mr Gannon. At the beginning, when you thought he’d stolen some money –”
“I was wrong. I told you –”
“Did you threaten to go to the police?”
Gannon looks appalled. “Go to the police? Do you mean inform on him? On me own son?”
“Did you threaten to?”
“I did not.”
“Then he’s going to a hell of a lot of trouble to keep from being found, and all for no reason.”
Gannon plays down Marker’s concerns. “Ah, he’s just acting the jackrabbit. Don’t mind him.” He wanders over to the coffin. “God’s truth!” he exclaims. “Look!”
“We’ve met,” says Marker.
Gannon grimaces. “The complexion of her… and she’s smiling. It’s not decent.” He shudders.
Withers returns, with an address jotted down on a slip of paper. He approaches Marker, not sure how to address him. “Inspector…? Superintendent…? Here we are. Edgar G. Pemberton.” Withers pauses as he consults the paper. “Mullingar Mansions, 15 Fenian Street, Birmingham 11.”
Marker and Gannon look at each other for a moment. Withers proffers the piece of paper to Marker, who ignores it. “Many thanks,” says Marker. He goes out. After a parting glance at Mrs Arbuthnot, Gannon follows.
* * *
Night has fallen again. Lights blaze through the portholes of a small cabin cruiser and voices can be heard raised in a sea shanty: “Oh, wake her, oh, shake her! / Oh, wake dat gal with de blue dress on! / When Johnny come down to Hilo, / Poor ol’ man!” The vessel is, in fact, dry docked in the backyard of a tenement block. Barney climbs aboard via a rickety gangplank, carrying a frying pan in one hand and a teapot in the other.
* * *
Inside, the cabin is cramped but habitable, and an attempt has been made to make it more attractive. There are two bunks. A small table has been set with plates and cutlery. It is Con and Michael’s girlfriend – named Moira – who are doing the singing. “I love a little gal across de sea, / She’s a Badian beauty and she says to me: / Oh, Johnny, come down to Hilo, / Poor ol’ man!” Michael is seated apart from them on one of the bunks and has fallen into a brooding silence. Con and Moira continue singing, regardless. “Oh, wake her, oh, shake her! / Oh, wake dat gal with de –” They break off as they hear a clattering on the deck above. Michael starts, guiltily. Barney calls down to Con to give him a hand.
“Oh, isn’t that a lovely smell,” cries Con, as he moves to help. “Easy now, oul’ son – don’t drop them…” Barney hands down the frying pan and the teapot. “Look, will you keep it level,” warns Con. “You’re dripping the grease down me neck. An’ mind the teapot – don’t scald me. One thing at a time…”
Meanwhile, Moira goes and sits next to Michael. “This is great gas,” she grins.
“Do you think so?” says Michael, sullenly.
“Yeah,” replies Moira, eagerly. “Living on a boat – it’s like we were sailors. I’m enjoying meself. Are you not?”
Michael is not. “No job, no money –”
“Who cares!”
“Why can’t they leave us alone? I could have made a good thing out of that job. In one week, I was running the whole shootin’ match.”
“You’ll get another one. Don’t be such a gloomy Gus.”
“How long do you think I’ll keep it?”
“They can’t stay here for ever,” insists Moira. “A few more days and they’ll give up and go home.”
Michael isn’t so confident. “That detective won’t give up and go home.”
“Him?” says Con. “He’s home already.” Con has brought the food to the table, and Barney has climbed down into the cabin. “Barney an’ me put him on National Assistance for a while,” adds Con. “We done to him what the Indians did to General Custer – 1839 to 1876. We –”
Michael stops him. “Look, I don’t want to know what you did to him.”
Moira tells Michael not to be rude, but Con waves this aside. “Ah, he’s just in the dumps. Come on – get this into you.” While Moira helps to serve the food, Con tells Barney to man the helm. “I’ll relieve you at eight bells.” Barney, not the brightest light in the harbour, sets off to do just that – until Con calls him back. “Don’t you know when you’re being codded?” Moira asks who owns the boat, and Con explains that it belongs to the tenement’s landlord. “He used to live somewhere on the East Coast. When he was movin’, he tried to sell her. Couldn’t get the price he wanted, so he brought her with him.”
As the others tuck in, Michael barely touches his food. “Michael, are you not eating?” asks Moira.
“He’s thinking of all he’s been through,” reckons Con. “I know how it is. It’s come over him a bit sudden.”
“Is that right, Michael?” asks Moira, with a hint of mockery. “Are you thinking of all you’ve been through?” He looks at her, angrily.
This goes unnoticed by Con. “I think yous are great, so yous are,” he declares. “Such an ordeal – hunted and hounded. Do you know, in your place I’d a slashed me wrists. But you’re all right now – safe as houses.”
“Safe as ships, you mean!” sniggers Barney.
“Oh, the wit, the wit!” says Con, affectionately.
“Con, we can’t thank you and Barney enough,” says Moira, sincerely.
Con plays it down, apologising for having to turf them out of the house. “It coulda been risky,” he explains.
Moira doesn’t mind. “Oh, we’re fine here. I love it.”
Con beams. “Ah, you’re a great girl, Moira. That husband of yours is steeped, so he is.” Michael looks guiltily at Moira, who merely lifts an amused eyebrow. “An’ tonight,” adds Con, “me an’ Barney will be up off the floor an’ back in our own beds. We’ll get a couple o’ bottles of somethin’, lie back in comfort an’ have a nice gargle.”
“In bed?” asks Moira.
“Certainly – where else!” replies Con, adding suggestively, “Every man to his taste, what?” Seeing that Michael is not best pleased by this remark, Con begs his pardon. “That was smutty and uncalled for. But isn’t Barney a great cook!” Con grins through a mouthful of sausage.
Moira reaches for Michael’s hand, and holds it tightly and affectionately. It lies limp in hers.
* * *
In The Pride of Erin, Marker and Gannon are sitting at a table, waiting and hoping for Michael to return. Marker has his back to the bar. Gannon is conscious of the time. “I don’t want to stay too late, Mr Marker. The missus’ll be worried.” Marker encourages him to return to the hotel. Gannon hesitates, indecisively. “On the other hand, I’d like to go back to her with some good news. Do you think he’ll come in?”
Marker considers. “Maybe not this evening. But sooner or later.”
“If we don’t find him, I’ll never forgive meself. It’ll break his poor mother’s heart.”
Marker smiles, sympathetically. “Well, we can’t let that happen.”
“Michael’s an only child, you know. His mother, Alice, she dotes on him.”
“She’s a nice lady. She –” Marker stops mid-sentence, as if realising something.
What he hasn’t noticed, however, is Barney coming into the pub. He goes up to the bar, carrying two empty beer bottles, pint-sized. “Same again, love,” he says to the barmaid. “Chilly oul’ evenin’.”
Recognising the voice, Marker whispers to Gannon. “That’s it. We’re off.”
Gannon looks in the direction of Barney. “Is… is he one of the –?”
Marker shushes him to silence. “You trot off home. I may have some news for you later.” Behind him, the barmaid gives Barney two similar bottles of beer. He thanks her and goes out at a half-trot.
Gannon protests. “Look, can I not –?”
Marker puts a finger to his lips. He picks up an empty beer bottle from the table, slips it into his pocket and follows Barney.
* * *
Con’s flat is a seedy bedsitter, with two single beds and a cooking alcove. Con, in a once exotic dressing gown, is getting ready for bed. He goes to the side of his bed, kneels and mutters a few quick prayers. Then he rises and administers a sharp tap to an ancient radio – vintage 1937. It at once starts playing. Con takes off his dressing gown – underneath, he’s wearing an old, much-patched shirt. He gets into bed and opens up The Handy Dictionary of Famous Names. There are heavy footsteps on the stairs outside, then Barney comes in with the beers. Con smiles contentedly as Barney begins opening them. “Isn’t this the height of luxury? A soft bed, sweet music and a couple of jars. Nothin’ like it!” The door bursts open and Marker walks in. Barney and Con stare at him, open-mouthed. Then Con grins. “Ah, the hard! The Incredible Elastic Man – he never stops bouncin’.”
“You two owe me a pair of shoes,” says Marker. “But I’ll settle for some information.” Con tells Barney to fetch Marker a chair, but, as Barney takes a step in his direction, Marker takes the bottle out of his pocket, ready for use. “I’ll stand.”
“Be our guest,” says Con. “Barney, pour him a jar.”
Marker isn’t won over by their hospitality. “I could have you jokers put away for last night,” he warns. “I may still. It depends on how quickly I get young Gannon’s address.”
“What are you so peeved for?” asks Con. “It was only a joke,” he adds. “A couple of harmless taps. There’s no reason to march in here and be cool with people.”
“Fair enough,” says Marker. “I’d get some clothes on, if I were you, because you’re going to have visitors.” He turns to go.
“What are you bein’ so vindictive for?” protests Con. “If you’da told us the truth, we wouldn’t have laid a finger on you. An’ if it wasn’t for me bein’ handicapped be only havin’ a shirt on, I’d be outta this bed an’ at you, bottle or no bottle.”
“Anything I told you was –”
“Lies, mate, lies! All that rubbidge about havin’ a row with his oul’ fella!”
“So tell me your version.”
Con says nothing. Barney blurts out, “He blew up a statue.” Con tells him to shut up.
Marker frowns. “He did what?”
“Nothin’,” snaps Con. “You mind your own interference!”
“Look,” says Marker, “two nice old people have come a long way to find him. They –”
“What nice old people?” demands Con.
“His parents.”
“He’s an orphan,” counters Con. “He has no one belong to him.”
“Except his missus,” says Barney. Con tells him again to be quiet. “Lovely girrul,” adds Barney.
Marker looks mystified. “Since when is he married?”
“Never you mind,” says Con.
“And if he’s an orphan, who am I working for?”
“Ah!” says Con, claiming this as a victory.
“Someone around here is the great-grandfather of all liars,” says Marker. “I’d like to know who.” Barney opens his mouth to speak. Con tells him again to shut it. “No?” asks Marker. “See you in court, then.”
“Hold on,” says Con. Marker pauses on his way to the door. “We’re thinkin’...” Con looks worriedly at Barney. Marker waits.
* * *
Aboard the cabin cruiser, Moira and Michael have retired for the night. Michael is smoking in the upper bunk, staring broodingly at the bulkhead. Moira calls up to him from the lower berth. He doesn’t reply, but Moira isn’t fooled. “Don’t pretend you’re asleep,” she says. “I can see the smoke.” Michael asks her what she wants. “Come on down,” replies Moira.
“What for?” asks Michael.
“Because I’m cold,” says Moira, exasperated.
“Do you want a blanket?”
“No.” For a moment, there’s silence, then Moira tries again. “Mick, I said I’m perishing with the cold – do you hear me?”
“What do you want me to do?” snaps Michael. “Stand over you and strike matches?”
“Oh, that’s charming,” says Moira. “You didn’t talk that way in Mullingar. You didn’t strike matches the night we sat in the hearse.”
“Oh, God,” sighs Michael, miserably.
“What’s up with you?”
“They’ll kill me.”
“Who will?”
“Them,” wails Michael. “They’re here and they’ll find me, and I’ll be made bits of. You know what Willie’s like. That fella is dangerous. He has a slate loose. He’d smash me like an eggshell.”
“Willie’s not here,” argues Moira. “It’s only the oul’ fella. Willie’s at home.”
“I dreamt about him last night. I dreamt the oul’ fella found me and he sent for Willie.”
“Dreams go by contraries.”
Michael isn’t convinced. “It’s a terrible way to be,” he says, self-pityingly. “Living in sin on a boat in the middle of Birmingham.”
Moira raises her eyebrows. “Who’s living in sin?”
“Well, we’re as good as.”
“Some people are easily pleased,” declares Moira. After a pause, she adds, “You don’t love me.”
“Yes, I do,” Michael protests.
“Then come down.”
“Not now.”
“We've got to start sometime,” reasons Moira. She receives no reply. “Mick?”
“G’night, now.” Michael settles down in his bunk, facing the wall.
“Mick?” repeats Moira. No answer. Moira gives up.
* * *
Con has been holding forth to Marker, with Barney in attendance. The atmosphere in the flat is now more amicable. They each hold a glass of beer. “Well, blowin’ up a statue, that’s the worst kind of political offence,” explains Con. “They put the secret polis after you for that.”
“Secret police?” says Marker, incredulously.
Con nods. “Oh, sure. They call them the Special Branch. Them’s the fellas ’ud follow you all the way to Australia. Clever lads – real sleeveens. They even sucked you in as their catspaw.”
“Me?” asks Marker.
Con looks at him with sympathy. “You’re a decent poor devil, but you believe whatever people tell you.”
“Maybe I ought to change jobs,” suggests Marker, drily.
“That’s not for us to say. Anyway, Barney an’ me couldn’t see Mick an’ his missus chased from pillar to post. A man shouldn’t be persecuted for his political convictions.”
“How long have you known him?”
“A few days. We met him in The Pride of Erin.”
“And he told you about how he blew up a statue?”
“Yeah,” says Con.
“And you believed him?”
“Certainly. What would he tell us lies for?”
“Maybe for the fun of it.”
“He blew up a statue,” insists Con.
“Right,” says Marker. “Then why would the police, English or Irish, ask me to help them?”
Con shrugs. “How do I know? They have their methods.”
“I’ve spoken to his parents.”
“He’s an orphan,” states Con.
“I’ve seen them,” states Marker, just as firmly.
“You saw secret polis.”
“His mother is in her sixties.”
“So what?” says Con. “Poliswomen grow old.”
Marker’s patience wears thin. “Try to get it through your head. It’s a yarn. He’s having you on, playing on your sympathies. He has an overwrought imagination. He left home and his parents are looking for him.”
Con shakes his head, pityingly. “You’d believe anything. But you’re getting no information out of us.”
Marker looks as though he’s about to lose his temper. Then he decides upon a show of tired resignation. “All right, have it your own way,” he sighs. “You’re too good for me.” Con smiles in triumph. Marker turns casually to Barney, and asks, “Where is he now?”
“Outside, in the boat,” replies Barney, automatically.
Con screams at Barney, “You dirty-lookin’ eejit!”
Marker moves to the window and sees, to his surprise, that there is indeed a boat in the backyard. He starts for the door, then pauses to caution Con. “I wouldn’t try to warn him, by the way. The house is surrounded. Secret polis.” Marker steps out on to the landing, where there’s a telephone on the wall. He picks up the receiver and starts to dial.
* * *
In the lounge of the Shamrock Hotel, the telephone receiver is lying off the hook. Gannon, in his night clothes, comes down the stairs and picks it up. “Hello?” he says, into the instrument. “Yes, who’s that…? Yes, Mr Marker.” Mrs Gannon appears close behind him, similarly attired, wanting to know what’s happening. Gannon shushes her, then continues speaking into the phone. “You’ve… found him? Oh, but that’s great news.”
“Ask where he is,” prompts Mrs Gannon.
Gannon does as he’s told. “Where is he, exactly…? No, we want to go there this instant.” He glances at the missus. “Sure, his poor old mother can’t wait… Meet you where?” He jots down the address. “Number 19, Pond Street… Yes, I have that, Mr Marker… As soon as we can get a taxi. Goodbye… Yes… and you’ll have your reward.” He hangs up and turns to Mrs Gannon. “We’ve got him!” he announces, no longer so convivial.
Mrs Gannon’s mood has also changed. “And may he never see tomorrow mornin’s sun come up!” she vows, vengefully. She turns to address a third figure, who has also come downstairs. “Did you hear that, Willie? We’ve got him.”
Willie is the hulking young man who was tearing pin-ups the day before. “Yis, Ma,” he grins. “Yis. I heard you.” With gleeful anticipation, he begins smacking a fist into the palm of his other hand – great, thudding blows.
Marker isn’t deterred. “All right,” he demands, “where is he?”
“What a rude man you are,” gasps Withers. “The funeral is not until three o’clock, doors open two forty-five, so will you leave?”
Marker holds up the photograph of Michael. “Him. I want him.”
Withers looks. “But that’s my Mr Pemberton.”
Marker corrects him. “His name’s Gannon.”
“Pemberton,” insists Withers. “I should know – he works here. Or, at least, he did.”
Marker doesn’t like the sound of that. “Did?”
“I don’t see why I –” Suddenly, Withers looks disheartened. “Oh, don’t say you’re the police.”
“All right, I won’t. Now, what do you mean, ‘did’?”
Withers shakes his head. “I knew he must be in the most sinister trouble – he left so abruptly.” Marker asks when that was. “This very morning,” replies Withers. “He came in, announced he was leaving and had the impertinence to ask for money. Of course, he got none – after all, I am entitled to a fortnight’s notice. These Americans are all alike – splendid workers, tireless fellows, but not to be trusted. Sometimes I think they’d steal the pennies off a corpse’s eyes.” Withers immediately regrets this last, unsavoury remark. “Forgive me.”
“Do you have his address?” asks Marker.
“Oh, yes,” replies Withers.
“Could we have it?” asks Marker, patiently.
“It?” asks Withers. Then he catches up. “Yes – most certainly.” He prepares to go. “I do hope he has done nothing which reflects on us. It was quite bad enough leaving me to cope with Mrs Arbuthnot.”
“The address?” Marker reminds him.
“Yes,” nods Withers. “Shan’t be a moment.” He goes to get it.
“Now we’ll have him,” smiles Gannon.
Marker doesn’t share his optimism. “Don’t bank on it, Mr Gannon. If the name’s phoney, chances are he’ll have given a dud address.”
Gannon’s face falls. “Then how will we find him?”
“The hard way,” replies Marker. He touches one of his bruises, reflectively. “Mr Gannon. At the beginning, when you thought he’d stolen some money –”
“I was wrong. I told you –”
“Did you threaten to go to the police?”
Gannon looks appalled. “Go to the police? Do you mean inform on him? On me own son?”
“Did you threaten to?”
“I did not.”
“Then he’s going to a hell of a lot of trouble to keep from being found, and all for no reason.”
Gannon plays down Marker’s concerns. “Ah, he’s just acting the jackrabbit. Don’t mind him.” He wanders over to the coffin. “God’s truth!” he exclaims. “Look!”
“We’ve met,” says Marker.
Gannon grimaces. “The complexion of her… and she’s smiling. It’s not decent.” He shudders.
Withers returns, with an address jotted down on a slip of paper. He approaches Marker, not sure how to address him. “Inspector…? Superintendent…? Here we are. Edgar G. Pemberton.” Withers pauses as he consults the paper. “Mullingar Mansions, 15 Fenian Street, Birmingham 11.”
Marker and Gannon look at each other for a moment. Withers proffers the piece of paper to Marker, who ignores it. “Many thanks,” says Marker. He goes out. After a parting glance at Mrs Arbuthnot, Gannon follows.
* * *
Night has fallen again. Lights blaze through the portholes of a small cabin cruiser and voices can be heard raised in a sea shanty: “Oh, wake her, oh, shake her! / Oh, wake dat gal with de blue dress on! / When Johnny come down to Hilo, / Poor ol’ man!” The vessel is, in fact, dry docked in the backyard of a tenement block. Barney climbs aboard via a rickety gangplank, carrying a frying pan in one hand and a teapot in the other.
* * *
Inside, the cabin is cramped but habitable, and an attempt has been made to make it more attractive. There are two bunks. A small table has been set with plates and cutlery. It is Con and Michael’s girlfriend – named Moira – who are doing the singing. “I love a little gal across de sea, / She’s a Badian beauty and she says to me: / Oh, Johnny, come down to Hilo, / Poor ol’ man!” Michael is seated apart from them on one of the bunks and has fallen into a brooding silence. Con and Moira continue singing, regardless. “Oh, wake her, oh, shake her! / Oh, wake dat gal with de –” They break off as they hear a clattering on the deck above. Michael starts, guiltily. Barney calls down to Con to give him a hand.
“Oh, isn’t that a lovely smell,” cries Con, as he moves to help. “Easy now, oul’ son – don’t drop them…” Barney hands down the frying pan and the teapot. “Look, will you keep it level,” warns Con. “You’re dripping the grease down me neck. An’ mind the teapot – don’t scald me. One thing at a time…”
Meanwhile, Moira goes and sits next to Michael. “This is great gas,” she grins.
“Do you think so?” says Michael, sullenly.
“Yeah,” replies Moira, eagerly. “Living on a boat – it’s like we were sailors. I’m enjoying meself. Are you not?”
Michael is not. “No job, no money –”
“Who cares!”
“Why can’t they leave us alone? I could have made a good thing out of that job. In one week, I was running the whole shootin’ match.”
“You’ll get another one. Don’t be such a gloomy Gus.”
“How long do you think I’ll keep it?”
“They can’t stay here for ever,” insists Moira. “A few more days and they’ll give up and go home.”
Michael isn’t so confident. “That detective won’t give up and go home.”
“Him?” says Con. “He’s home already.” Con has brought the food to the table, and Barney has climbed down into the cabin. “Barney an’ me put him on National Assistance for a while,” adds Con. “We done to him what the Indians did to General Custer – 1839 to 1876. We –”
Michael stops him. “Look, I don’t want to know what you did to him.”
Moira tells Michael not to be rude, but Con waves this aside. “Ah, he’s just in the dumps. Come on – get this into you.” While Moira helps to serve the food, Con tells Barney to man the helm. “I’ll relieve you at eight bells.” Barney, not the brightest light in the harbour, sets off to do just that – until Con calls him back. “Don’t you know when you’re being codded?” Moira asks who owns the boat, and Con explains that it belongs to the tenement’s landlord. “He used to live somewhere on the East Coast. When he was movin’, he tried to sell her. Couldn’t get the price he wanted, so he brought her with him.”
As the others tuck in, Michael barely touches his food. “Michael, are you not eating?” asks Moira.
“He’s thinking of all he’s been through,” reckons Con. “I know how it is. It’s come over him a bit sudden.”
“Is that right, Michael?” asks Moira, with a hint of mockery. “Are you thinking of all you’ve been through?” He looks at her, angrily.
This goes unnoticed by Con. “I think yous are great, so yous are,” he declares. “Such an ordeal – hunted and hounded. Do you know, in your place I’d a slashed me wrists. But you’re all right now – safe as houses.”
“Safe as ships, you mean!” sniggers Barney.
“Oh, the wit, the wit!” says Con, affectionately.
“Con, we can’t thank you and Barney enough,” says Moira, sincerely.
Con plays it down, apologising for having to turf them out of the house. “It coulda been risky,” he explains.
Moira doesn’t mind. “Oh, we’re fine here. I love it.”
Con beams. “Ah, you’re a great girl, Moira. That husband of yours is steeped, so he is.” Michael looks guiltily at Moira, who merely lifts an amused eyebrow. “An’ tonight,” adds Con, “me an’ Barney will be up off the floor an’ back in our own beds. We’ll get a couple o’ bottles of somethin’, lie back in comfort an’ have a nice gargle.”
“In bed?” asks Moira.
“Certainly – where else!” replies Con, adding suggestively, “Every man to his taste, what?” Seeing that Michael is not best pleased by this remark, Con begs his pardon. “That was smutty and uncalled for. But isn’t Barney a great cook!” Con grins through a mouthful of sausage.
Moira reaches for Michael’s hand, and holds it tightly and affectionately. It lies limp in hers.
* * *
In The Pride of Erin, Marker and Gannon are sitting at a table, waiting and hoping for Michael to return. Marker has his back to the bar. Gannon is conscious of the time. “I don’t want to stay too late, Mr Marker. The missus’ll be worried.” Marker encourages him to return to the hotel. Gannon hesitates, indecisively. “On the other hand, I’d like to go back to her with some good news. Do you think he’ll come in?”
Marker considers. “Maybe not this evening. But sooner or later.”
“If we don’t find him, I’ll never forgive meself. It’ll break his poor mother’s heart.”
Marker smiles, sympathetically. “Well, we can’t let that happen.”
“Michael’s an only child, you know. His mother, Alice, she dotes on him.”
“She’s a nice lady. She –” Marker stops mid-sentence, as if realising something.
What he hasn’t noticed, however, is Barney coming into the pub. He goes up to the bar, carrying two empty beer bottles, pint-sized. “Same again, love,” he says to the barmaid. “Chilly oul’ evenin’.”
Recognising the voice, Marker whispers to Gannon. “That’s it. We’re off.”
Gannon looks in the direction of Barney. “Is… is he one of the –?”
Marker shushes him to silence. “You trot off home. I may have some news for you later.” Behind him, the barmaid gives Barney two similar bottles of beer. He thanks her and goes out at a half-trot.
Gannon protests. “Look, can I not –?”
Marker puts a finger to his lips. He picks up an empty beer bottle from the table, slips it into his pocket and follows Barney.
* * *
Con’s flat is a seedy bedsitter, with two single beds and a cooking alcove. Con, in a once exotic dressing gown, is getting ready for bed. He goes to the side of his bed, kneels and mutters a few quick prayers. Then he rises and administers a sharp tap to an ancient radio – vintage 1937. It at once starts playing. Con takes off his dressing gown – underneath, he’s wearing an old, much-patched shirt. He gets into bed and opens up The Handy Dictionary of Famous Names. There are heavy footsteps on the stairs outside, then Barney comes in with the beers. Con smiles contentedly as Barney begins opening them. “Isn’t this the height of luxury? A soft bed, sweet music and a couple of jars. Nothin’ like it!” The door bursts open and Marker walks in. Barney and Con stare at him, open-mouthed. Then Con grins. “Ah, the hard! The Incredible Elastic Man – he never stops bouncin’.”
“You two owe me a pair of shoes,” says Marker. “But I’ll settle for some information.” Con tells Barney to fetch Marker a chair, but, as Barney takes a step in his direction, Marker takes the bottle out of his pocket, ready for use. “I’ll stand.”
“Be our guest,” says Con. “Barney, pour him a jar.”
Marker isn’t won over by their hospitality. “I could have you jokers put away for last night,” he warns. “I may still. It depends on how quickly I get young Gannon’s address.”
“What are you so peeved for?” asks Con. “It was only a joke,” he adds. “A couple of harmless taps. There’s no reason to march in here and be cool with people.”
“Fair enough,” says Marker. “I’d get some clothes on, if I were you, because you’re going to have visitors.” He turns to go.
“What are you bein’ so vindictive for?” protests Con. “If you’da told us the truth, we wouldn’t have laid a finger on you. An’ if it wasn’t for me bein’ handicapped be only havin’ a shirt on, I’d be outta this bed an’ at you, bottle or no bottle.”
“Anything I told you was –”
“Lies, mate, lies! All that rubbidge about havin’ a row with his oul’ fella!”
“So tell me your version.”
Con says nothing. Barney blurts out, “He blew up a statue.” Con tells him to shut up.
Marker frowns. “He did what?”
“Nothin’,” snaps Con. “You mind your own interference!”
“Look,” says Marker, “two nice old people have come a long way to find him. They –”
“What nice old people?” demands Con.
“His parents.”
“He’s an orphan,” counters Con. “He has no one belong to him.”
“Except his missus,” says Barney. Con tells him again to be quiet. “Lovely girrul,” adds Barney.
Marker looks mystified. “Since when is he married?”
“Never you mind,” says Con.
“And if he’s an orphan, who am I working for?”
“Ah!” says Con, claiming this as a victory.
“Someone around here is the great-grandfather of all liars,” says Marker. “I’d like to know who.” Barney opens his mouth to speak. Con tells him again to shut it. “No?” asks Marker. “See you in court, then.”
“Hold on,” says Con. Marker pauses on his way to the door. “We’re thinkin’...” Con looks worriedly at Barney. Marker waits.
* * *
Aboard the cabin cruiser, Moira and Michael have retired for the night. Michael is smoking in the upper bunk, staring broodingly at the bulkhead. Moira calls up to him from the lower berth. He doesn’t reply, but Moira isn’t fooled. “Don’t pretend you’re asleep,” she says. “I can see the smoke.” Michael asks her what she wants. “Come on down,” replies Moira.
“What for?” asks Michael.
“Because I’m cold,” says Moira, exasperated.
“Do you want a blanket?”
“No.” For a moment, there’s silence, then Moira tries again. “Mick, I said I’m perishing with the cold – do you hear me?”
“What do you want me to do?” snaps Michael. “Stand over you and strike matches?”
“Oh, that’s charming,” says Moira. “You didn’t talk that way in Mullingar. You didn’t strike matches the night we sat in the hearse.”
“Oh, God,” sighs Michael, miserably.
“What’s up with you?”
“They’ll kill me.”
“Who will?”
“Them,” wails Michael. “They’re here and they’ll find me, and I’ll be made bits of. You know what Willie’s like. That fella is dangerous. He has a slate loose. He’d smash me like an eggshell.”
“Willie’s not here,” argues Moira. “It’s only the oul’ fella. Willie’s at home.”
“I dreamt about him last night. I dreamt the oul’ fella found me and he sent for Willie.”
“Dreams go by contraries.”
Michael isn’t convinced. “It’s a terrible way to be,” he says, self-pityingly. “Living in sin on a boat in the middle of Birmingham.”
Moira raises her eyebrows. “Who’s living in sin?”
“Well, we’re as good as.”
“Some people are easily pleased,” declares Moira. After a pause, she adds, “You don’t love me.”
“Yes, I do,” Michael protests.
“Then come down.”
“Not now.”
“We've got to start sometime,” reasons Moira. She receives no reply. “Mick?”
“G’night, now.” Michael settles down in his bunk, facing the wall.
“Mick?” repeats Moira. No answer. Moira gives up.
* * *
Con has been holding forth to Marker, with Barney in attendance. The atmosphere in the flat is now more amicable. They each hold a glass of beer. “Well, blowin’ up a statue, that’s the worst kind of political offence,” explains Con. “They put the secret polis after you for that.”
“Secret police?” says Marker, incredulously.
Con nods. “Oh, sure. They call them the Special Branch. Them’s the fellas ’ud follow you all the way to Australia. Clever lads – real sleeveens. They even sucked you in as their catspaw.”
“Me?” asks Marker.
Con looks at him with sympathy. “You’re a decent poor devil, but you believe whatever people tell you.”
“Maybe I ought to change jobs,” suggests Marker, drily.
“That’s not for us to say. Anyway, Barney an’ me couldn’t see Mick an’ his missus chased from pillar to post. A man shouldn’t be persecuted for his political convictions.”
“How long have you known him?”
“A few days. We met him in The Pride of Erin.”
“And he told you about how he blew up a statue?”
“Yeah,” says Con.
“And you believed him?”
“Certainly. What would he tell us lies for?”
“Maybe for the fun of it.”
“He blew up a statue,” insists Con.
“Right,” says Marker. “Then why would the police, English or Irish, ask me to help them?”
Con shrugs. “How do I know? They have their methods.”
“I’ve spoken to his parents.”
“He’s an orphan,” states Con.
“I’ve seen them,” states Marker, just as firmly.
“You saw secret polis.”
“His mother is in her sixties.”
“So what?” says Con. “Poliswomen grow old.”
Marker’s patience wears thin. “Try to get it through your head. It’s a yarn. He’s having you on, playing on your sympathies. He has an overwrought imagination. He left home and his parents are looking for him.”
Con shakes his head, pityingly. “You’d believe anything. But you’re getting no information out of us.”
Marker looks as though he’s about to lose his temper. Then he decides upon a show of tired resignation. “All right, have it your own way,” he sighs. “You’re too good for me.” Con smiles in triumph. Marker turns casually to Barney, and asks, “Where is he now?”
“Outside, in the boat,” replies Barney, automatically.
Con screams at Barney, “You dirty-lookin’ eejit!”
Marker moves to the window and sees, to his surprise, that there is indeed a boat in the backyard. He starts for the door, then pauses to caution Con. “I wouldn’t try to warn him, by the way. The house is surrounded. Secret polis.” Marker steps out on to the landing, where there’s a telephone on the wall. He picks up the receiver and starts to dial.
* * *
In the lounge of the Shamrock Hotel, the telephone receiver is lying off the hook. Gannon, in his night clothes, comes down the stairs and picks it up. “Hello?” he says, into the instrument. “Yes, who’s that…? Yes, Mr Marker.” Mrs Gannon appears close behind him, similarly attired, wanting to know what’s happening. Gannon shushes her, then continues speaking into the phone. “You’ve… found him? Oh, but that’s great news.”
“Ask where he is,” prompts Mrs Gannon.
Gannon does as he’s told. “Where is he, exactly…? No, we want to go there this instant.” He glances at the missus. “Sure, his poor old mother can’t wait… Meet you where?” He jots down the address. “Number 19, Pond Street… Yes, I have that, Mr Marker… As soon as we can get a taxi. Goodbye… Yes… and you’ll have your reward.” He hangs up and turns to Mrs Gannon. “We’ve got him!” he announces, no longer so convivial.
Mrs Gannon’s mood has also changed. “And may he never see tomorrow mornin’s sun come up!” she vows, vengefully. She turns to address a third figure, who has also come downstairs. “Did you hear that, Willie? We’ve got him.”
Willie is the hulking young man who was tearing pin-ups the day before. “Yis, Ma,” he grins. “Yis. I heard you.” With gleeful anticipation, he begins smacking a fist into the palm of his other hand – great, thudding blows.